


Shrapnel

by schweet_heart



Series: Avengers Fic [7]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, Community: avengerkink, Established Relationship, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Death - Temporary, Ownership, Possessive!Steve (sort of), avengerkink prompt, dogtags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is missing, presumed dead, and all Tony has left are his dogtags and a shitload of survivor's guilt. Written for <a href="http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/7940.html?thread=16696580">this</a> avengerkink prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shrapnel

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[fill] Steve/Tony- dogtags, h/c](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/15690) by allofthefandoms. 



Fury hands him the dogtags without ceremony, as if they're just another piece of detritus, same as Steve's old coffee cup or the civvies he kept on the helicarrier, just in case.

 

“He wanted you to have these,” the Director says, depositing the two small scraps of metal into Tony's outstretched palm. “They haven't officially read the will yet, but I thought you might as well take them now.”

 

They were found with the body, Fury tells him, and he doesn't elaborate, for which Tony is grateful. The tags are bent, dented and covered in dried blood – it's not like Tony needs him to paint a fucking picture. It's all he's been seeing for days now, anyway: Steve gasping for breath in a pool of blood. Steve caught in the blast of an explosion, flung back like a rag-doll, broken and bleeding. Steve dying. Steve dead. Now he's holding the proof in his hands and it still feels like a nightmare he's about to wake up from.

 

“Thanks,” he tells Fury, and leaves without waiting to be dismissed. Fury lets him go; there are some things that go beyond standard military protocol, and this is one of them.

 

*

 

Steve was always trying to get him to wear those damned tags.

 

“Come on, Tony,” he'd said, when Tony refused the first time. “Humour me. I want you to have them.”

 

Tony had fixed him with a look that meant everything from _you have to be kidding_ to _don't even think about trying the puppy-eyes on me_.

 

“I'm not a dog, Steve,” he'd said, brushing the proffered tags away. “I don't need license and registration. What, are you afraid I'll get lost on the subway or something? Property of Steve Rogers, if found please return to Avengers Tower.” He made a face. “Seriously, I'm not doing it.”

 

Steve had shrugged, but he hadn't given up. And Tony wasn't entirely sure why he kept refusing, except that it felt too much like putting a noose around his own neck, too much like being permanently attached. It was better if neither of them got too invested in this thing, whatever it was, between them. That way it wouldn't hurt so badly when he inevitably fucked it up.

 

Now, looking at the cursed things through half a bottle of Scotch, he finds he has developed an irrational hatred of them, of the way the metal has warped and scarred, the way the light reflects off the pitted surface like a fucking disco ball.

 

“How the hell are these supposed to help me?” he demands of his absent friend. “You're dead. They can't bring you back. What fucking good are they if they can't bring you back?”

 

He downs the last of the Scotch in one long swallow. The taste is bitter, scalding his throat and tongue.

 

“Can't even enjoy a fucking drink without you,” he says, and for a moment he actually resents it.

 

*

 

He still has bad dreams. They start out like good ones, Steve's hands on his cock, their mouths wet and gasping against each others' throats, the slick-slide of arousal and release. It's not so much the sex as the sensation of proximity that he misses; the way Steve's body felt against his, the weight of skin on skin. In his dreams, Steve is so substantial he's almost real, except at the end he always leaves. And Tony knows he's never coming back.

 

Sometimes, the dreams are mingled with the nightmares he brought back from Afghanistan. He's in a desert, trying to build a suit out of sand, shaping it while the grains turn to glass under his fingers and shred his palms to pieces. He's following Captain America's back across the dunes, the sand swirling around him and choking him until he can't breathe, can't see, until he falls to his knees with his hands clawing at his throat, Steve's dogtags tightening around his neck like a garrotte.

 

On those nights he wakes sweating and gasping and stares at the ceiling for what feels like hours. There is still a faint impression in the mattress on Steve's side of the bed, where the springs had learned to conform to his bulk. But the blankets are all on his side, the sheets cold and exposed, and Tony's alone, the dim light from the digital clock in the wall glowing green in the early morning dark.

 

He keeps the dogtags on his dresser. He can't really see them from the bed, but he knows their shape, a rectangular blob of deeper shadow against the paler backdrop of the wall. He has to walk past them to get to the bathroom every morning.

 

They're the only bits of Steve that remain.

 

*

 

Whenever Tony accused him of having a possessive streak, Steve had just laughed, but once the dogtags became a bone of contention between them (and ha ha, see what he did there) Tony figured he was justified in making the presumption. Ownership was not a kink he'd ever indulged in, but the sensation of belonging whenever Steve linked their names together in a sentence or said _Tony and I_ or _Tony thinks_ and Tony's stomach jumped – well, lets just say he could get used to it, if he didn't know it couldn't last.

 

“It's not about possession, Tony,” Steve had tried to explain. “I just like to think that when I'm not here, there will still be a piece of me with you. Protecting you.”

 

He had meant _when I'm away_ or _when you're at work_ , but it occurs to Tony later that he'd probably meant _if I die_ too, and he can't decide if he loves or hates it that Steve cared, so much, when he was never able to give him anything in return.

 

*

 

He takes them with him, on the team's first mission after Steve's death. It's a trivial gesture and a futile one, but it makes him feel better and no one else questions it, even though he knows they're watching when he retrieves the tags before suiting up. Natasha even gives him a brief nod of what could have been approval, which under the circumstances he decides to take as a sign of understanding rather than pity. Natasha has never been the sort to waste words on grief.

 

To begin with, he keeps the dogtags in one of the specially designed compartments in the suit for safekeeping, but the way he gets thrown about in battle that ends up being less than optimal, and he almost loses them twice before he gives in and loops them over his neck. He doesn't let them touch his skin, though. He just...can't. He's not even sure why, really, except that he doesn't want cold metal to be all he has left of Steve's touch.

 

After the first month, he starts wearing them all day and leaving them on his bedside table at night.

 

After two months, he never takes them off at all.

 

*

 

They get the call that Steve's alive exactly three months, six days, five hours and seven minutes after his supposed death, which Tony knows because he's been adding the seconds over and over again in his head since the dogtags first touched his palm. Fury just says, “He's alive” (and okay, maybe he tries to explain it, but Tony can't hear him over the buzzing in his head and anyway these are just _details_ ) and then a few hours later they're in the hospital, crowded together in Steve's room as if he'd never been gone.

 

“Hey guys,” Steve says, after the exclamations and the hugs have died down. He's looking straight at Tony, who all of a sudden forgets how to breathe as the reality of it hits him yet again. “Can we have a moment?”

 

Bruce and Natasha exchange glances.

 

“Sure,” Bruce says. The two of them usher Clint and Thor into the hall, Clint still protesting that he brought some popcorn especially for this occasion, and it's not until the door closes behind them and the sound of voices trails away that Tony is able to gather the courage to speak.

 

“Hey,” he says, with as much nonchalance as he can muster. “Welcome back.”

 

“Thanks,” Steve says, smiling. He pats the bed beside him. “Come and sit down?”

 

It shouldn't even be a question, except Tony is still hanging back by the doorway, scared to come any closer and find out it's just a hallucination. Steve seems to understand, though, because he just waits, giving Tony time to regain his equilibrium. Finally, Tony approaches the bed, arms folded close over his chest where the reactor hums with unaccountable ferocity.

 

“So,” he says. “I guess you thought faking your death would be the best way to get my attention, huh? I mean, gee, Steve, if you were feeling neglected you should have just told me. We could've gone on a date or something.”

 

“I'm so sorry, Tony,” Steve says seriously. “I know the past few months can't have been easy for you.”

 

Tony shrugs.

 

“I'll live,” he says. “And more importantly, so will you.”

 

This time, when Steve reaches for him, he bends willingly into the embrace, letting the supersoldier's strength reassure him in the ways his mere presence could not. Steve tucks him close, one hand buried in Tony's hair and the other wrapping around his shoulders, pressing him against his chest.

 

“I missed you,” Tony blurts. He wasn't intending to get emotional at all, didn't _want_ to, but he can't help the way his voice shivers and breaks in the middle, his fingers curling into Steve's crisp white bedding. He buries his face in the junction between Steve's neck and shoulder and breathes in the scent of him, which Tony likes to tease him is freedom and apple pie but which is actually dust, and motor oil, and fresh linen and soap. “Fuck. Sorry. I just – I thought you were dead, Steve.”

 

“I know.”

 

Steve's hand smoothes down his neck and back, his palm warm through Tony's shirt, and the strange and fearful thing that had been holding onto him with an iron fist lets go like the postponement of an execution. He lets himself sag fully onto the mattress, Steve's arms wrapping around him until he's lying half on top of the bed, and it's okay, it's fine, everything is going to be fine. He raises himself up a little so that he can look into Steve's face and smiles.

 

“I don't think these things were meant for two people, Cap,” he says. Steve just shrugs.

 

“I don't care,” he says. “I haven't seen you in three months, I'm not going to let a little thing like that stop me from making sure you're okay.”

 

“Making sure _I'm_ okay? Of the two of us, which one was captured for months and is now in hospital looking like they got run over by a tank?”

 

“Touché.” Steve laughs, and it shakes the bed. It's familiar and perfect and he should probably get some kind of recording of it or something, just in case this ever happens again. “Hey, are you wearing my dog tags?”

 

Suddenly self-conscious, Tony's hand goes to his throat. “N-oo...” he lies.

 

“You _are_.” Steve looks – it's hard to tell how Steve looks, his expression a mixture of wonder and confusion and delight. He catches Tony's gaze and sobers immediately, but the smile is still there at the corners of his eyes. “Wow. You really missed me, huh.”

 

“Shut up.” But he doesn't deny it. How can he, when he spent every day dreaming about all the things he'd say to Steve if only he could have him back? He fishes the chain out from under his shirt and begins pulling it over his head. “I was just holding onto them for you, that's all. Don't get excited.”

 

“Don't,” Steve says, reaching up and catching his arm before he can take them off completely. “I'm sorry. I won't say anything. I just wasn't expecting it, that's all.”

 

Tony hesitates.

 

“Please,” Steve says softly. “I want you to have them.”

 

It's his eyes that do it, of course. Tony has resisted interrogation by terrorists, endured countless briefings with Fury and faced down Pepper when she's on the warpath, yet in this moment he is helpless against that particular look on that particular face. He lets the chain drop back around his neck. Hell, he thinks wryly. In for a penny, in for a pound.

 

“I'm all yours, Cap,” he says. And Steve smiles back.


End file.
